


that sea breeze

by mutationalfalsetto



Series: The Brooklyn Avengers [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Natasha Romanoff, F/F, First Dates, Fluff, Original Character(s), clint barton's incredible art skills, garden au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7822774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutationalfalsetto/pseuds/mutationalfalsetto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha is one smooth motherfucker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that sea breeze

Natasha takes a yoga class twice a week, per her therapist’s recommendation. Every Monday and Wednesday she finds herself doing  _Eka Pada Rajakapotasana_  in a room full of older women who like to talk at length about their veganism, their juice diets. She wrinkles her nose at the combinations (“spinach and ginger!” “ _watermelon and kale! Can’t get enough of it_!”), wonders why someone would willingly subject themselves to that sort of punishment. She lays in  _Balasana_ , listening to the drone of the instructor, and feels herself drifting.

When her therapist asks her what she thinks of the yoga class, she shrugs, indifferent. “It’s okay,” she says. “It’s quiet." 

Quiet is new. Natasha isn’t sure if she likes it.  
  
After every yoga class she feels weightless. It’s a disconcerting sensation that leaves her shooting surreptitious glances over her shoulder on her way to the subway. She’s not alert, like this. Too pliant.

Having endured the hour and a half of Bendy Juice Diet Hell, Natasha feels she more than deserves a treat. There’s a Whole Foods near her apartment. She doesn’t like to go there because the crowds make her itch, but for over-priced baked goods, she’s willing to deal.

The doors to Whole Foods glide open with a soft _whoosh_ , and she’s met with a burst of cool air. It smells sterile, nothing like the dirty humidity of the surrounding city. A man with his hair in a bun walks by. Sterile with a hint of body odor, then. Natasha discreetly snaps a picture with her phone, sends it to James with the caption ” _do u know him?????_ “

Not bothering to wait for James to break out of what she’s sure is an award-winning death glare at his phone, she continues into the organic clusterfuck.  
  
The bakery is nothing like the bakeries she remembers from her childhood. The pastries are bigger, for one, but they have labels that say things like "gluten-free” and “paleo”. The paleo cookies look a little like something she would feed to the pigeons that roost on the roof of her apartment. She makes a face, continues on her way.

Eventually she finds herself standing in front of the cinnamon buns. She would much rather have them warm out of the oven, but her stomach chooses that moment to announce its presence. At a whopping $7.99 for one bun it certainly fits the “over-priced baked goods” criteria, anyway.

She slips one cinnamon bun into the little paper sack. Considers the display for a moment (uneven, one row of 6 and one row of 5) before taking a second one. It’ll keep the first one company.

Egregiously expensive confections acquired, she makes her way up to the checkout lines. She keeps her eyes focused ahead, purposefully not looking at the little treats, the bottled drinks. 

Okay, maybe she grabs two coconut water iced coffees. She’s a highly trained spy, not a miracle worker. The allure of coconut water iced coffee is too strong. Besides, this is her treat to herself.

Natasha is still trying to justify her meager purchase by the time she approaches the checkout counter. She places her items on the belt, careful to make sure the cinnamon buns don’t slide out. Maybe when she gets home she’ll put them in the microwave. It’s almost like having them out of the oven, but with none of the mess (and also not like having a cinnamon bun out of the oven at all).

“Find everything okay?”

Natasha makes a noncommittal noise, digging in her pack to find her wallet. That’s another thing she can’t stand about yoga. For all the special clothing and equipment, she has yet to find a pair of yoga pants with pockets. Highly inconvenient. She can do a handstand wearing normal clothes, if she felt like it.  
  
She’s still looking through her wallet. _License, License, metrocard, expired SHIELD insurance card, bikini inspector card, license…taxi driver license…  
_  
Regardless of her years of training, Natasha, like everyone else, will always fall victim to the crushing panic and paranoia that accompanies grocery store checkout lines. Something about the weight of the next customer’s gaze on her back, the bored stare of the cashier. The _terrible_ music over the loudspeaker. It all culminates in a sudden desire to  _movemovemovegogogo._

And go she shall, as soon as she finds her _fucking card_.

“Y'know what? I’ll give it to you this time.”

Natasha freezes. Maybe she looks as pathetic as she feels. Maybe it’s her lucky day. Maybe–

She looks up, feels something in her chest, a sharp _oh_ in her head.  
  
Love at first sight is a myth. A tale told by children in the dark to make them feel less alone. Natasha doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t totally immune to a cute cashier offering her _free goddamn expensive pastries_ and smiling at her. Her heart maybe skips a beat. She has fucking _dimples_ and the universe is cruel and against her.

“Thank you.” To her credit, she manages not to sound like her heart is trying to claw its way up her throat. Offers a smile of her own, something she hopes is more ‘coy and flirtatious’ than 'loser who can’t find her damn debit card’.  
  
The girl’s nametag has a sparkly bumblebee sticker on it.  _Ece_. It’s written in something that looks a little like chalk, yellow to match the little bumblebee. Her name is Ece and she has dimples and Nat is languishing in hell with her free, fancy cinnamon rolls. 

God help her.

She wants to make a joke, something to mitigate the sheer awkwardness that is the length of time she’s spending staring at the girl and her bumblebee nametag. The words get stuck in her throat, feel chalky and heavy on her tongue.  
  
The soft _beep_ of the scanner anchors her back in the present. Ece is already ringing up the next customer, scanning their expensive almond milk, their gluten-free, 100% whole 30 approved crackers. The paper crinkles under her fingers as she tightens her grip on the cinnamon buns.

Ece, engaged in the next transaction, does not look back at her. It’s a silly thing, wanting to make just one more second of eye contact. Something to let her know everything is over. Nat frowns, turns toward the door. Every moment of the interaction is burned into her memory and she replays it bit-by-bit, analyzing. 

Leaving the Whole Foods is a surreal experience. 

The Red Room took a lot of things from her. Ripped them out and shoved new things in, haphazardly rearranging them until they formed something like a person. And she has been so many people, over the years. Daughters, lovers, assistants, dancers, students. She has laughed, has flirted, witty comments jumping from her mouth like little arrows. Natasha– _Наталья_ has charmed, has seduced, and it came as easily to her as the crack of bones under her feet, the stutter of breath in a person’s final moments. Life fleeing under her hands. The Red Room took a lot of things from her, but this is not one of those.

_Чем твоя проблема?_

Natasha’s fingers tap against her phone. What is Clint doing right now? How quickly would he come get her if she asked? She doesn’t want to get on the subway, not right now. Maybe in a few hours, when things have calmed down. When the trains are less-crowded.

She shoves the cinnamon rolls in her bag and slips away into a coffee shop where she can hopefully drown the feeling of wrongness with a couple whole-fat vanilla lattes.  
  
  


* * *

 

When she emerges from the cafe she has downed 3 lattes and thinks she is one more latte away from going into cardiac arrest. Her hands are twitching, her movements hummingbird-quick. The paper bag rustles at about the same time her stomach growls. She swipes her metrocard, once, twice, growls at the _swipe again_ message that flashes across the screen.

Natasha swipes a third time. Her stomach grumbles again, protesting the absence of pastry in the midst of so much caffeine. It makes her feel a little sick, a little jittery. Doesn’t the machine know she has food to eat?

At last, the machine reads her card’s remaining balance. She shoves her way through the turnstile, walks quickly now that the platform is clear of commuters heading to work. The platform smells like oil, like trash, like everyone who’s passed through over the course of the last decade. When the train screeches into place in front of her she hurries on, delighting in the empty car, the opportunity to dig into her cinnamon rolls with wild abandon. After several enthusiastic bites, she admits to herself that perhaps the expensive pastries were worth it. Better than ginger-kale-lemon smoothies, in any case.

They reach the next stop just as Natasha is shoving exactly one third of the enormous cinnamon roll into her mouth. And, because the universe is determined to destroy everything good in her life, a familiar flash of green fabric catches her eye.

She looks different outside the Whole Foods. Maybe it’s the absence of the apron, the fact that away from the hectic environment of the front registers she seems more relaxed. At ease.

Natasha tries to look like she is not trying her best to impersonate a snake at dinnertime. They are the only ones in the subway car, and she is suddenly very aware of this fact.

“Pretty good, huh?” The girl sits across from her. Natasha makes a choking noise around the food. The food that she cannot possibly swallow all at once. She chews for a moment, swallows, is very aware that Ece is still looking at her expectantly. Natasha is, as she was before, _also_ very aware of the other’s dimples.

God. Damn. It.

She might say “they’re great”, she might just send crumbs flying all over the space between them. She’s not sure, all she knows is that she has once again descended into the depths of hell. Ece, bless her, seems unfazed.

“There’s this great doughnut place, it’s pretty packed most of the time, but their pastries are _to die for_ ,” Ece says. 

Unbeknownst to Ece, Natasha is already dead. She is dead and this is, perhaps, her punishment for everything she’s done (she got off easy, honestly). She swallows the rest of her cinnamon roll, considers throwing herself off the train at the next stop.

 _Чем твоя проблема_? She asks herself. She used to be good at this, at flirting. If that’s what they’re doing (she hopes that’s what they’re doing).

“I like doughnuts,” she replies. Smooth. Killing it. A real Casanova, that Natasha Romanoff.

Ece is either completely immune to her absolute disaster of a conversation partner, or she’s choosing to ignore it. “It’s such a nice place, I always feel a little awkward, though. Like,” she laughs a little. Natasha ascends. “Like, it’s always full of all these _couples_ , it’s, y’know.” She grins at Natasha. Like they’re friends. Like their only interaction wasn’t one of them giving the other free pastries out of pity.

Natasha, unsure of how to respond, shoves more cinnamon roll into her mouth. Ece raises her eyebrows. “I bet they have cinnamon buns.”

Ece stares at Nat.

Nat stares at Ece.

The train must reach her stop, because Ece heaves a sigh and stands up. She digs around in her bag and produces a pen. It’s a cheap ballpoint, green. The train doors slide open just in time for Ece to grab Natasha’s arm, scrawl a messy sequence of numbers on the back of her hand. 

“ _Call me_ , is what I’m getting at.”

Like that, she’s gone. The doors close behind her with a _whoosh_.  
  
Natasha stares at the numbers until she reaches her stop.  
  
  


* * *

 

Clint whistles when he sees the numbers. “I leave you alone for _two days_ and you’re practically married.”

He was gone a month, but who’s counting?

She purposefully pushes the bag of frozen peas a little too hard against the knot on his forehead, smirks when he gives a startled yelp. Lucky lifts his head, assesses the situation after a soft ” _boof_ “ then returns his head to his paws. Truly an excellent guard dog.

"Прости.” There’s no real sentiment behind it. She’s rarely sorry when it comes to Clint, has so many debts to pay that she figures she can just add the minor inconveniences to the list. Besides, he owes her just as much as she owes him.  
  
He shoots her a reproachful look over his shoulder, but the effect is lessened somewhat by the split lip, the bruises, the general appearance of someone who has recently been hit by a car. “I didn’t invite you over just t’–”

“You didn’t invite me at all.”

“Fine then.” He waves her off. “You barge in, guns blazing–”

“You asked me to watch your dog!”

“Lucky can take care of himself. Lookit him– totally self-sufficient.”

Natasha looks against her better judgment. Lucky has moved. He’s sprawled on his back and drooling attractively onto the kitchen tile. The picture of capability. 

“Ah yes,” she deadpans, “I’ve seen the error of my ways.”

Clint moves to take the bag of peas from her, but she pulls it out of reach at the last second. 

“Just remember to invite me to the wedding and we’re even.”

The bag makes a satisfying slapping sound when it hits Clint’s face. 

She steps over Lucky on her way to the kitchen to raid the fridge. Natasha, despite her recent grocery store excursion, doesn’t have an adequate food supply. Barton is usually good for beer, some frozen pizzas, and Chinese food of questionable freshness. She sticks her head in the fridge and makes a clucking noise.

“You couldn’t drag yourself to a grocery store?”

Clint makes a noncommittal noise from the couch. “Was gonna order out. My bruises have bruises, Nat, cut me some slack.”

A pause while Natasha sifts through the (frankly, disgusting) old food in the refrigerator. There’s a leftover plate of what may have been some of James’ lasagna from…

 _Почему_? Natasha drops the plate back on the metal with a sharp _clang_ before pulling out her phone to send a quick picture to James accompanied by the little crying emoji. Serves Clint right– that was excellent lasagna.

The little ellipses appear before a string of angry-looking emojis pop up, steam coming out of nonexistent nostrils. She closes the fridge and turns back to the living room. Checks that Clint still has his hearing aids in before she gets his attention.

“You want me to call?”

Another non-committal sound, though this one sounds affirmative enough that she takes out her phone again to dial the number of Clint’s favorite Chinese restaurant. If he’s going to spend the rest of his life avoiding the wrath of the Winter Soldier, she might as well make his last meal enjoyable.

When they’re sitting cross-legged on the floor (well, _she’s_ cross-legged, he’s sprawling), Clint gives her a Look over his carton of fried rice. “You’re not off the hook, Nat. I want wedding dates, themes, bachelorette party details, the whole nine yards.”

“It’ll be a while, Barton,” she says through a mouthful of orange chicken. “Gotta give you time to recover from when I kick your ass.”  
  
  


* * *

 

Natasha calls her on a Tuesday, when she realizes that not washing her hand for fear that the numbers will fade is pretty disgusting. When she tells Clint this over coffee, he gives her a pointed look and drags the pastry they’re sharing closer to his side of the table.

“Wash your hand or I’ll wash it for you.”

So she calls, standing outside the coffee shop with her germ-smothered hand pressed to her phone pressed to her face. Her stomach is twisted in a million directions and the phone just keeps _ringing_. 

Natasha, for all her stillness, is not a patient person. She never smothered someone with their pillow if she could just snap their neck instead, never settled comfortably in a sniper’s perch if she could be in combat on the ground. It’s what makes her an effective agent; in and out, every minute put to use.  
  
Holding the phone to her ear and listening to the repetitive ringing on the other end requires a monumental amount of patience. The seconds creep by, every moment increasing the likelihood that Ece won’t pick up. That she’ll have to leave a voicemail. Her heart hammers against her ribs as she searches through her mental lexicon for the right words.

A stranger bumps into her on their way into the coffee shop. How long has she been standing here? Years? Decades?

“ _…lo?_ ”

She’s maybe five seconds away from a heart attack.

“Hello?”

Casual. She just has to be casual. Natasha can be casual.

“Привет!”

Ah, shit.

“ _Who the fuck–”_

Natasha’s recovery time impresses even her. Her expressive language, however, is another story.

"Hi! Hey! Hi, it’s… it’s… me– I mean, it’s Natasha.”

Did she introduce herself? Is her knowledge of Ece’s name based solely on a small piece of plastic with a bumblebee sticker?

“… from… from the train.”

 _And the Whole Foods. I stuffed a whole cinnamon roll in my mouth_ , she thinks.

Is Clint even still here? She glances over her shoulder. Clint is doodling on his coffee cup, tongue firmly between his teeth. The first plate is empty, a new plate stacked on top of it. It’s a cronut, one of her favorite food portmanteaus.

There’s excitement in Ece’s voice when she speaks next. “ _Oh! With the cinnamon rolls_!”

With the cinnamon rolls.

Natasha feels like she’s forcing her voice through concrete. It takes a lot of energy to make it sound like she isn’t completely dismayed that her entire identity has been boiled down to two small (admittedly good) pastries.

“Yeeeeeeeah.”

“ _It’s been a while_!”

There’s an awkward, extended pause. Natasha thinks she might be dying. This call was a mistake. Not washing her hand in a reasonable amount of time was a mistake.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah.”

When Ece speaks next, it’s with some hesitance. “ _Is… there a reason? You called_?”  
  
_Yes because you are an actual literal angel descended from heaven and I want to stare at your dimples indefinitely_ is what she thinks.

“Yep!” is what comes out instead.

More hesitation. Slamming her head into a brick wall might have been a better course of action.

“. _.. and the reason is…_?”

They’re sailing into unfamiliar territory. She glances through the window again, catching Clint’s eye.

 _Help me_ , she mouths.

Clint gives her an exaggerated thumbs up in return.

Some friend.

She sifts through her memories. Surely she’s done this before, as herself or as someone else, she’s not choosy. Despite her efforts, everything comes up blank. Natasha has nothing to draw from, no identity to assume, and it is both thrilling and terrifying. To be nobody but herself.

“ _Is this about the thing on the train_?” Ece’s voice cuts through Natasha’s panicked internal monologue.

“The what?”

“ _On the subway. With the place that makes good pastries?_ ” Her voice is a little apprehensive, a little hopeful.

Natasha wants to hide her face in her hands and scream. Fortunately, when she speaks her voice does not indicate any of this.

“Yeah and… and I was wondering if you’d want to… you know–”

“ _Yes_.”

“–get a pastry.”

A pause.

“ _A pastry_.”

She’d laugh if her stomach didn’t feel like a vacuum that ate a tornado. Instead she allows her lips to twist into an approximation of a smile, a reflection of the burst of fondness in her chest.

 _Это пиздец_.

“Just one pastry.”

Ece laughs, delighted and warm. Natasha feels the tug on the corner of her lips, her own soft breath of a laugh growing in her throat. She’s so fucked she’s so _so_ fucked.

A knock on the window startles her out of her warm, sickeningly sweet reverie. She surfaces like someone breaking through caramel, takes a deep breath and turns around to find Clint standing there, hands moving almost too quickly for her to catch.

 _The chocolate cronut is getting cold_.

Natasha cradles her phone between her shoulder and ear with some difficulty. Hands free, she glares at him, her own hands moving clumsily, tripping over each other as she tries to get her words out the way Clint taught her.

 _Fuck the chocolate cronut_.

Clint looks momentarily offended, makes a motion like he’s about to tell her just what he thinks about her lack of loyalty to a truly astounding invention, but thinks better of it. Instead he holds up his coffee cup, which bears a crude depiction of a wedding ceremony. Natasha is decked out in her tactical gear, and stands next to a rough approximation of someone who Nat thinks might be Ece but actually looks more like a triangle with pigtails. The sun is wearing sunglasses. Clint’s biceps are significantly larger than in reality.

Natasha raises an eyebrow, and Clint gives another enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“ _… Natasha?_ ”

Right.

“ _дерьмо_ – yeah?”

Another pause. Natasha’s going to fight Clint in the next available alley.

“ _Four on Saturday? I gotta work in the morning but I could meet you…_ ”

She’s screaming. It’s on the inside, but she’s screaming.

As the Black Widow, Natasha is collected. She prides herself on the distance she keeps from the situation and from herself. Everything that makes up Natasha, _Наталья_ , she puts a football field between them, keeps them far away and works hard not to let anything in. Not to let anything _change_.

But Natasha is not always the Black Widow, just as the Black Widow is not always Natasha. And right now, it is Natasha, _not_ the Black Widow, who is standing in front of another faceless coffee shop nestled between a Duane Reade and a State Farm office. And it is _Natasha_ who is pressing her phone too hard to her face, can feel the warmth of the device on her cheek. _Natasha_ who is listening to Ece give the address of a different coffee shop somewhere in Greenpoint. She’s been there before, remembers piles of Nordic sweaters in the windows, a minimalist interior, and indie rock playing softly over hidden speakers. Good croissants.

“ _Is that okay?_ ”

Natasha is ascending. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she feels the weight of the Widow’s judgment.

“Yes! Yeah! Definitely, that’s—“

“ _Great!_ ”

“Yeah! Fantastic! Great, I—“

“ _See you on Saturday!_ ”

“Saturday!”

“ _Great!_ ”

“Great!”

“ _Yep!”_

“Mhm, I—“

The warmth of the phone vanishes from her cheek, leaving a cool rectangle in its wake. She frowns, confused for a handful of moments until a flash of purple catches her eye.

Clint “Actual Piece of Shit” Barton.

“What the fuck?” She reaches out for her phone only for him to dance out of her reach again, a purple nuisance in chuck taylors.

“I had to! You just kept going! It was painful!”

“Пошёл на хуй!”

“I’m saving you from yourself, I’m— _ohjesuschrist_.” He doubles over and the phone falls to the pavement with a soft clatter. She hopes the absence of crunching glass indicates minimal damage. Her punch just barely missed his left kidney—she must be slipping.

“I saved you a goddamn _cronut_ you ungrateful—“

She inspects the screen, relaxes when she notes the absence of cracks. A few scratches here and there, but overall unscathed. “I am fully capable of buying my own cronuts and _hanging up my phone_ —“

“ _But I bought you one, anyway_!”

“Cronuts won’t buy my friendship, Clint. You fucked up.”

He straightens up, glances back through the window with dismay. Natasha follows his gaze only to note that there’s a couple sitting at their table, the plate holding the cronut suspiciously empty. Clint runs his hand through his hair, heaves a sigh of defeat.

“Yeah, I fucked up.”  
  
 

* * *

 

Saturday dawns misty and humid, air so thick that it feels like she’s swimming to the subway near her apartment. She makes a face, tugs at the loose shirt that feels like it’s sticking to her skin. She can’t remember if Ece’s coffee shop has AC, but she supposes there are worse ways to start a date.

 _Like shoving an entire cinnamon roll in your mouth_.

Awful.

After enduring an unpleasant wait by the tracks, she boards her train. Her fingers dance over the straps on her bag. Did she bring too much? Not enough? Is her outfit going to allow for adequate pastry intake? Is Ece going to recognize her? Should she have worn a nametag?

She contemplates texting James, asking him to send a series of increasingly desperate messages as a way of giving herself an out. Just in case things don’t go as planned, just in case it gets to be too much, and when did something like simple, _this_ straightforward have the ability to make her so on edge? Natasha wonders, not for the first time, if she’s slipping.

It’s only a two minute walk from the Greenpoint Ave stop to the coffee shop, but by the time she pulls open the door she’s already covered in a thin layer of sweat. Her skin feels sticky, her hair is starting to frizz. She’s sweaty and miserable and never wants to go outside again.

The coffee shop has air conditioning. Bless.

Natasha’s eyes travel over the assortment of Nordic goods in the window until she has no other choice than to look in the direction of the coffee bar.

The coffee bar that Ece is _not_ standing behind. She lets out a soft breath, a mixture of relief and disappointment. Deplorable as her appearance may be, she wanted their reunion to be a little like tearing off a band-aid: quick and only a little painful.

Just as she’s looking over the expensive drink menu, she hears the soft _slap slap_ of sandals on the wooden floor. They’re coming in her direction, and despite her best efforts Natasha feels her muscles tense, her body prepare itself for an attack.

 _Это не миссия_ , she tells herself. _Успокаивай._

"Natasha!"

It's Ece, looking significantly more put-together than Natasha feels. Ece's clothes aren't sticking to her (quickly cooling) skin. Ece's hair isn't—

Well, Ece's hair isn't doing much of anything because, Natasha notes, her hair is cut close to her scalp. The short bob she was sporting at their first meeting is gone, replaced with something that makes her look a little rougher, a little like that woman that drove the big truck in the movie Kate likes so much.

Ece notices her stare, runs her hand over her head self-consciously. Her nails are olive green to match the shorts she's wearing and Natasha is maybe going to die.

"It got a little hot, y'know?"

Natasha wills herself to speak, succeeds only in nodding silently as she runs a hand through her own, frizzy hair.

They stand there for a moment, staring at one another until Natasha clears her throat. Maybe she can give the "talking" thing another try.

"You said something about a pastry," she says, albeit a little weakly.

Once, Natasha read a book that described someone's smile as being like the sun breaking through heavy clouds. She wouldn't describe Ece's smile that way, but she thinks she knows what the author was referring to. Ece's smile is bright, a little lopsided. It makes her think of the goofy look James gets when he watches Steve, of sunflower curtains in a kitchen in a country far away. It's warm and it's natural and she wants to bask in it forever.

Ece smiles, and Natasha's gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote 10 pages of this on my phone during class, dudes. 
> 
> Shoutout to [bazzystar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bazzystar/pseuds/bazzystar) for letting me scream at her about this for literally 4 months. I should also add that as I'm still v much a novice as far as this whole Russian thing goes, I may have made some/an egregious number of errors. If you see anything off feel free to yell at me about it, esp if there are any like. colloquialisms that I didn't get. I'm still learning and they don't cover colloquialisms literally anywhere.
> 
> Translations in order of appearance:  
> Чем твоя проблема? = What's your problem?  
> Почему = why  
> Привет = hi  
> Это пиздец = this is fucked up  
> дерьмо = shit  
> Пошёл на хуй = fuck off  
> Это не миссия = this is not a mission  
> Успокаивай = calm down


End file.
